


locked in here forever

by seashellcolors



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Implied Sexual Content, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashellcolors/pseuds/seashellcolors
Summary: Mercia folows his duties well.





	locked in here forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dust_motes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_motes/gifts).

> hey, hope you have a great halloween most of all! and also, hope you enjoy :D
> 
> if it's no longer halloween where you are, happy first of the month!

The thing about standing on the winning side that nobody admits is, it’s still not easy. Mercia takes his duties well; he doesn’t speak out of turn, he follows his King, he understands what he must do without having to be told twice. Eyes on the prize, a good knight. Always a good knight.  
  
The thing about having his eyes on the prize is, well, sometimes the prize is not a thing, and it’s not a position. Sometimes the prize is a person with his eyes set on a much bigger, much shinier, much more powerful prize, and Mercia just has to accept he’s going to be there, a satellite, revolving around Vortigern until his end.  
  
“They hold no chance against me,” Vortigern tells him, once. It’s right after a battle, one they won, hands making quick work of his armor, cupping his jaw, smearing some blood from a graze upwards onto his cheek. A voice inside Mercia wishes he could change that _me_ to _us_.

  
He’d say that, if he thought he could. Instead, he drops to his knees. “You’re right, my King.”

* * *

  
  
It’s a peaceful day, all things considered, that should be the first clue.  
  
They go to form treaties and alliances themselves enough of the time, when they deem a peaceful surrender worthy, but it’s not uncommon to be visited by ambassadors. This time, it’s a group of about a dozen, led by a young — obviously nervous, obviously inexperienced in the affairs of politics — man.  
  
Mercia can see Vortigern’s eye tic for a millisecond. The decision of how this is going to proceed is made, then. Everything left is only the niceties, the politeness, a last need of good optics that the opposite side refused to show, by sending someone not equipped to deal with the weight of the situation.  
  
So, they sit. Thirteen people from their side on one, just him on the other side of the table, Vortigern at the head. Mercia’s seat gives him a clear view of every movement the young ambassador makes — he knows how to decipher Vortigern’s looks, by now, and he agrees with them, most of the time.  
  
The ambassador’s hand twitches one, two, three times. Mercia holds his knife at his throat the fourth.  
  
Vortigern is wearing solely royal clothes today, barely protecting. Fabrics and layers clearly created for a king. They’re beautiful, and Mercia’s eyes were hungry, earlier, but they’re also heavy. Hard to move inside. For all Vortigern isn’t a fighter by nature, he still has skills, and it’s only those skills that allow him to dodge the poisoned-covered blade. A poisoned-covered blade that Mercia hadn’t seen. Nor did the other guards.  
  
His knife is knocked out of his hand by the ambassador, who now looks more like a kid than ever. Wide eyes, sweat forming above his brow, but maybe more capable than nothing. There’s a spark of anger drowned out by the sounds of the guards’ swords clashing with the rest of the men’s, and the pull at his heart to go back to his King’s side, to protect him. The clashes fall down to a buzz, the would-be assassin the only thing he can see. He knows he leaps over the table, he knows he can feel the familiar weight of his own sword in his hand, and he can catalogue the stinging in various places his arms and waist where the edge barely touched him.  
  
The kid’s skill is better than expected, true, but it’s still not his focus. Once he’s knocked to the floor Mercia just steps over him, looks for the person who was arrogant enough to think any part of this attempt would end well for them. He doesn’t have to search for long; the sight of a few guards flocked together, a few more laying down, being clue enough.  
  
“Stand down,” he tells them. “He’s mine.” There are some confused flinches, a pause, but all it manages is for the would-be-assassin to cut a clean line across someone’s throat.  
  
Mercia steps forward. The blades clash again.  
  


* * *

  
It should probably worry him, that he only returns to the real world once his vision can only register his sword on the ground, not sticking out of a body— but there is a body on the ground, the dark haired one of the assassin. He’s not dead, but there’s a gash across his chest, brimming red.  
  
The ambassador is holding a knife with two trembling hands as he addresses Mercia. “Please,” he says in an equally trembling voice, “let me take him away. To a healer.”  
  
It’s desperation, pure, liquid. Mercia’s gaze softens, his stance lax. One of the guards is steadily advancing on the kid. Mercia gives him a barely-there nod. “Okay,” he answers. “Okay. Lift him up and go.”  
  
The kid’s eyes widen. He sucks in a quick breath, evidently having not expected that response, but just as fast throws the weapon and kneels by his friend.  
  
His knees barely touch the ground before the guard’s blade comes down on his neck, down farther, until it reaches the next body.  
  
The pull at his heart— that’s familiar. A life so young shouldn’t leave the world, he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind. But the relief that follows it is also familiar, and washes over him in much bigger, much stronger waves. People, young, old, are still just bodies in comparison to Vortigern.  
  
Vortigern, who still looks mostly untouched. And expressionless. Who turns to the guards, “Clean this mess up.” Who turns to him. “Meet me in my chambers.”  
  
Mercia does. Vortigern is standing next to the bed, holding a wet rag, which is not what he expected. “My King-” he starts, is unable to finish. Vortigern walks closer to him. The rag touches his face. He hisses.  
  
He’d do more than hiss, if he wasn’t so surprised. If the touch wasn’t so light.  
  
“It’s been quite a while since you fought so close to me,” Vortigern tells him. Mercia has nothing to respond with to that, so he doesn’t. Vortigern presses closer as he dips the rag back in the water, which he now realizes is probably mixed with something, puts it back on his skin. “Made me realise,” he continues, each word underlined with the applied pressure of the fabric on his sensitive, still leaking but thankfully small, wounds, “that I don’t quite like it when someone puts bruises on you.”  
  
Mercia can’t help it, raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Someone who isn’t me.”  
  
And oh, _oh_, doesn’t that both make sense and tilt the world on its axis. But he keeps his mouth shut. He knows, this is Vortigern revealing his trump, in a way. If there was ever a doubt Mercia would stop this, would grow tired, would leave… it’s eliminated, now. A hundred of his blind spots are thrown in the light, an angry, unexpected tide crashing along the rocks, sharpening them.  
  
Hands coated in blood, elbows deep by now, probably, Mercia has no doubt he’ll continue until it’s covered over his heart.  
  
“So,” he says, “will you do something about them?”  
  
“We retaliate in the morning. You’ll be by my side. For now…”  
  
Mercia gets pulled forward. The conversation is over, that much he’s aware of. It’s fine, and it’s more of a confession than he ever thought, ever hoped, he’d get.  
  
And isn’t that fine too? His fate, after all, was sealed years ago.  
  
  



End file.
